


summer begs not for autumn

by mollivanders



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollivanders/pseuds/mollivanders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t age like he thought she would, all gray hairs and large hats, an echo of Violet Crawley when she still lived. She does not carry a cane around, and she does not wear heavy dresses that disguise her in public, that broadcast her intentions.</p><p>(She is, as always, the only person in the room.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	summer begs not for autumn

**Author's Note:**

> **Title: summer begs not for autumn**  
>  Fandom: Downton Abbey  
> Rating: G  
> Characters: Mary/Matthew  
> Author's Note: For faded_facade. Word Count - 562. Spoilers through S2. Prompt was _you have a grace that keeps me here_.  
>  Disclaimer: I own nothing.

She doesn’t age like he thought she would, all gray hairs and large hats, an echo of Violet Crawley when she still lived. She does not carry a cane around, and she does not wear heavy dresses that disguise her in public, that broadcast her intentions.

(She is, as always, the only person in the room.)

He notes himself in rueful contrast to her, and though she would protest, he sees the writing on the wall. The old cane is ever by his side now, and while they still walk to the village together, the chauffeur is waiting for them on the return journey. Mary’s hand is warm in his, and the sound of her voice encouraging their eldest daughter on her career as a journalist lulls him in to silence.

She will inherit, even if her mother never did, and he knows Mary is at peace.

(“I’ve been at peace a while now,” she tells him when he mentions it, kisses her warmly while their youngest grandson makes a noise in the background.)

The summer of 1954 seems longer than usual, at least to Matthew, out here in Downton. He’d argued for London at first, but he’s glad Mary won, because somehow the bustle of the city seems intolerable next to the peace of the grounds and the _Histories_ in his hand, while the children play with the dogs and Mary talks with Sybil about politics.

(She will be fine, when he is no longer here, he thinks.)

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers fiercely when he mentions it one night, the fire crackling in their bedroom even in the summer heat. He sits on the bed, watching her undress, and wonders how – after all these years – she’s the same for him. Long, dark hair falling down her back (it took years to regrow from that Paris fashion, but he’s grateful she did), careful hands buttoning her nightdress.

“Should I blush?” she asks him wryly, looking at him through a mirror and Matthew starts, catching her reflection.

“I was just thinking we should talk to Nielson about the estate,” he says, and sees her stiffen. “Make sure they’re protected, if the laws go through.”

(Make sure she’s protected. A title smashed, a property divided.)

“We have plenty of time for that,” Mary insists, and Matthew shakes his head. “We must face reality, dearest,” he says and Mary turns, eyes bright, and he falls in love with her all over again.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispers. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Thirty-four years should have been enough (never enough).

“Not yet,” he amends.

But the summer is not as long as all that, as it turns out, and Matthew knows Mary knows, even if they never speak of it. They spend their days more together than with others and talk themselves to sleep as they did when they were first married. 

The children ask, of course, but Mary’s as skilled as her mother when she has to be.

“Enjoy London,” she tells them over the phone, and though her voice doesn’t crack, she keeps her eyes fixed on Matthew. “We’ll let you know when we’re coming.”

(The cane ever by his side, her dark hair shimmering in his hands, the quiet drag of August.)

“Thirty-five years,” he murmurs in her ear that night. “We’ll have that, at least.”

(Thirty-four years should have been enough.)

_Finis_


End file.
